


Hell of a Day

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Community: daredevilkink, Gap Filler, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city explodes, Matt’s kinda busy, and Foggy gets hurt. And then Matt finds out Foggy’s in the hospital, and there’s all the guilt-tripping of a lifetime. Gap-filler for what happened after episode 1x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell of a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the [daredevilkink prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=5325768#cmt5325768) “how Matt found out Foggy was hurt”, relating to episode 1x06 where Foggy is injured by the explosion when he and Karen stay at Elena’s place.
> 
> +-+-+-+-+

It’s been a hell of a day.

Matt drags his feet by the time he gets to the apartment. Every bone in his body aches, or at least those that move when he walks. Moves. Breathes.

He almost chuckles, cause, yeah, apparently taking on a Russian thug and crashing through two stories of hardwood flooring for the fall to be broken by solid concrete will do that to the human body.

He indulges in the low groan that forms in his throat as he sags onto the couch, too exhausted to make it any further. He just needs to catch a breath. Then a hot shower, maybe. And sleep. To undoubtedly wake up to more pain in the morning.

His phone dings somewhere, he’s too tired to hone in on where. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. He needs a minute. Maybe two.

Matt jerks his head up with a start when his phone keeps repeating Karen’s name in the nameless female voice he knows so well.

Shit.

Karen. Karen and Foggy. The city exploded. He’s a selfish ass.

Another groan tumbles from his lips as he heaves himself off the couch with near-Herculean effort. He finds the phone in his suit jacket’s inner pocket that was thoughtlessly discarded on the foot end of his bed. It has stopped ringing by the time he reaches it.

When he navigates to the notifications, the same voice informs him he has eight missed calls and five new messages. “Shit,” he hisses, then starts listening to them.

They’re all from Foggy and Karen. Alternating. Karen has left three voicemails. Foggy two. They’re all variations of _where the hell are you, and are you okay, please call us back_.

He stumbles over the last one from Foggy. It’s short and to the point. “Matt? It’s Foggy. Where are you, buddy? Call me back, okay?”

There’s a tremor to his voice, a raspiness that isn’t like Foggy. That tells him immediately something’s wrong. Worry spreads like wildfire through Matt’s innards as the last message from Karen starts playing.

“Matt, we’re at Metro General. Foggy’s, uh... He was injured in one of the explosions. Don’t panic, he’s okay. Or gonna be. But if you get this, please call back. We’re worried.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Selfish ass. A shitty selfish—

He turns around, changes into the next best publically acceptable outfit he finds. He doesn’t care whether it might match or not, doesn’t bother with finding the little Braille dots stitched into the cuffs to tell him the color of the garment.

His aches and pains are tugging for attention, but are ignored as best as possible when he descends the stairs of his building.

As soon as he settles into the back seat of the taxi and gives the driver the intended destination, he fishes his phone out of his pocket to call Karen back. He only gets her voice mail and leaves a message to say he’s okay and on his way.

The rest of the cab ride to the Midtown hospital is too long and inundated with concern, apprehension, and guilt. So much guilt that he thinks he may drown in it one of these days.

The words _injured_ and _explosion_ and _don’t panic_ replay in his mind like a bad loop of a scratched record. There’s a bleeding Foggy in his mind’s eye, and a worried, angry Karen. He’s a selfish jerk, and he deserves all of his friends’ anger for going off on his own little justice spree without even looking left or right.

_Don’t panic. He’s okay._

He has to be, right? Matt should have been there. Maybe he could have… if he’d been in the right place at the right time… Well, it was the right time. Wrong place. Wrong. It’s all wrong.

_Or gonna be._

What does that even mean? How bad is it?

_Matt? It’s Foggy. Where are you, buddy? Call me back, okay?_

Yeah, where was he? Trying to pry information out of an undeserving, cruel, dying mobster. Nearly getting killed himself in the process. He’s a selfish ass.

Matt hastily pays the driver when he stops in front of the hospital, clumsily expands his cane that he doesn’t even need. It feels more like a hindrance than an aid today. All he wants is cast it aside and run past everyone to wherever he needs to be.

His phone rings just as he walks through the main entrance. It’s Karen.

“Matt?”

“Yeah. I’m here at the hospital. Where are you?”

Karen directs him to the room they put Foggy in, and he rushes there as quickly as he can. He tries to block out the smells and the noise. Focusing on his single mission to get to Foggy as quickly as possible helps with that.

Karen waits for him outside the room, all jitters and anxiety and just that harried, rushed heartbeat that gives Matt another jolt of guilt stabbing into his gut.

“My God, Matt, are you okay?”

He frowns briefly, unsure why she fixates on him that way. Then he vaguely realizes he never bothered to clean himself up other than changing clothes. He probably still has dust all over his face—the lower half, at least. There’s a bruise starting to blossom nicely on his chin which he can now feel.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he quickly says. “How is Foggy? What happened?”

She lets her hand rest on his upper arm. “He’s sleeping right now. We were at Elena’s when one of the explosions hit. The shockwave hit Elena’s apartment. Foggy had a piece of glass in his side, Elena needed stitches above her eye.”

“How bad is it?” She isn’t giving him the information about Foggy fast enough.

“The shard grazed a rib, but it didn’t damage any vital organs. Basically it’s just a wound in his ribcage that they had to stitch up. It should heal in a couple of weeks with a bit of rest. He’s gonna be sore for a while.”

He lets his senses reach out, and there’s Foggy’s heartbeat—strong and even. Sleeping. Relief floods Matt’s system. “Can I go in?”

“Yeah, he… Matt. It’s been a rough day. Let him sleep, okay?”

He nods. Of course.

Karen opens the door for him, tells him Foggy is in the second bed near the window. With her hand lightly on his arm, she guides him over to the bed.

Foggy’s heartbeat is louder, clearer in here. Still calm. Probably drug-induced, he guesses. His free hand grabs the edge of the foot of Foggy’s bed until his knuckles become white. This is all wrong. He might have been able to prevent this. Because Foggy being hurt—that’s one of the worst things Matt can imagine.

“He’s gonna be okay.” Karen is suddenly next to him, lightly squeezing his bicep. She gently tugs at his arm. “There’s a chair next to the bed. Do you want to sit down?”

“Yes, please.”

He sags into the chair, tries to hold on to his last shreds of energy. Karen lingers nearby.

“So where were you? We tried calling you all day.”

That’s the part where he gets stuck, because he hasn’t really bothered creating an elaborate backstory. Or any story, really. How does he make that question go away without lying? Is there a version of the truth he can bend for Foggy and Karen’s benefit?

He struggles with the response. For too long.

“Matt?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m not...”

“It’s okay. We were just worried, you know? It’s a warzone out there. It was bad enough even with your eyesight intact. And you never answered our calls, so we...”

She sucks in a breath, and he can tell she’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and here comes the first lie. There’s undoubtedly more to follow. “My battery died. I should have called. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she assures him again, but he knows it’s not. “Most important thing is that you’re okay, right?”

Is it? The most important thing is that Foggy is okay, and he’s not.

“Foggy, was he upset?” he asks, his voice a little desperate.

“Just worried, I think. He’ll be glad to see you.”

She moves closer, stands next to him, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. It squeezes lightly, but does little in terms of alleviating his guilt. He tries to appreciate the gesture, tries to soak up the feeble comfort it offers.

“Did they say if they wanted to keep him here?”

“I’m not sure. No one’s really been here to talk to us. I’ll try to go find someone, but it’s been kinda crazy with all the casualties.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“I’ll see if I can find someone right now.”

He follows her heels clacking on the linoleum floor until they fade, all of it underscored by Foggy’s steady heartbeat that he clings to like a lifeline. But now that the adrenaline is fading, it’s not enough to distract him.

The sensations trickle in, pile on top of each other, amplify each other. Smells mingle with other smells. Blood, disinfectant, urine, feces, wound discharge, at least eight different cleaning agents, hand sanitizer, latex gloves, laundry detergent, sweat, different shampoos, deodorants, lack thereof, stale coffee, all sorts of edibles, and, geez, the blood—it’s all too much.

He wants to clap his hands over his ears, but he knows it will do nothing to help. Too many voices, moans, snores, footsteps, beeping, whooshing, bubbling, clanking, creaking. Monitors, oxygen masks, dialysis machines, perfusors, and—too much.

His senses are under siege, and the assaults just keep coming. There’s a gag lodged in his throat that he fights against. Swallows it down but gets stuck on the realization that it’s a futile effort. One that falls short on the first try. He’s vaguely aware that he’s starting to breathe hard, well on the way to hyperventilating. It’s just as bad as that first day in the hospital after the—

“Matt?”

The voice pushes through the pandemonium, and Matt snaps to attention, because it’s Foggy. He tunnel-visions his senses to focus on the point of its origin.

“Foggy?”

“Yeah, geez, am I glad to see you, or what? You okay?”

Matt wants to let out a chuckle, cause _he_ should be asking Foggy that. Foggy adds, “You look a little shaken up.”

“I’m fine, but I hear you’re not.”

“Yeah, had a little altercation with a shard of glass. One that, regrettably, I lost.”

Foggy’s voice is tired, pain laced in it, despite the cheerful overtones he tries to weave in. They don’t intermix well today, and Matt knows the feeling.

“Does it hurt?” Matt asks.

Well. That’s kind of a stupid question, really. But Matt’s brain is too preoccupied with trying to keep the onslaught of sensations at bay.

“Not too bad. I think they put me on the good stuff. You know, the kind that’ll rip a nice little hole in my bank account.”

“Karen’s trying to find someone who can tell us when you might be getting out of here.”

Cause, yeah, that’s what Matt really wants to focus on. Getting out of here. Foggy grunts something in acknowledgment, and Matt already has a hard time trying to focus. Maybe the grunt wasn’t even Foggy’s.

“Matt, you look like you’re about to faint. Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, where have you been all day? We tried calling you, you know. Did you get hurt? Should we find you a doctor, or something?”

“No,” he quickly denies. “I’m okay. Just tired. I was helping people. Someone got trapped. It took a while before help arrived.”

There, that wasn’t even a lie. Or at least not much of one.

“You were helping to rescue people in the explosions?”

He nods, swallows once more. He thinks Foggy is drawing a half surprised, half impressed face, but it’s hard to tell.

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“Jesus, man. We were at Elena’s. Did Karen tell you that?”

“Yeah. She said Elena had to get stitches. Is she all right?”

Foggy draws in a breath. Matt tries to concentrate on that. Heartbeat and breathing other than his own.

“I don’t know. I think so. They were treating her in the ER when Karen very succinctly remarked that I was bleeding. Things kinda get a little hazy after that.”

And above all, there’s the guilt again, making a timely reappearance. “Foggy, I’m sorry. I should have been th—“

“No,” Foggy interrupts him. “You were helping people. I mean, yeah, I was a little mad when you didn’t answer your phone. And, well, you know, worried.”

He squeezes out the same lie he already told Karen. “My phone battery died. I’m sorry.”

Foggy lets out a breath that sounds like a sigh. “It’s okay. Shit happens, right?”

Matt forces a small smile. Yes, it certainly does. Of course Foggy doesn’t know the half of it.

Foggy shifts his position, lets out a moan as he does so. “Man, hospitals suck. I had forgotten how much so.”

It’s then that Karen comes back, with... no one in tow. “Hey, you’re awake,” she states.

“Yeah. Kinda hard to get quality sleep with all this commotion. And, oh, I forgot, a stabbing pain in your ribcage every time you move.”

“I couldn’t find anyone. Everyone’s still busy. Guess they had a lot of patients today. The nurse told me that someone will come by as soon as possible. Who knows how long that’ll take.”

Foggy moves his head. Matt thinks he’s looking first at Matt, then at Karen.

“You guys. You don’t have to stay here. Might as well see this through until the morning, overnight observation and all. Seriously, I’m okay. There’s no reason whatsoever you two need to lose sleep over sad little ol’ me being, albeit figuratively, chained to a hospital bed.”

Karen shifts her weight to one foot. Matt can tell she’s tired. Maybe as tired as he is.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes, very sure. Go, get some sleep. For me. Please?” He quirks the corners of his mouth upwards along with his eyebrows.

“Okay,” she acquiesces.

She walks over to the bedside and plants a soft kiss on Foggy’s forehead, mumbling something about getting rest and being back tomorrow. Matt follows her footsteps well into the hallway, long after she’s walked out the door.

Foggy’s voice interrupts his train of thought. “You too, buddy.”

“Foggy, I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are. No offense, but you look like shit. Possibly shittier than me, and that says a lot.”

Yeah, he probably does. He feels like he’s been through the grinder—bruised ribs and soft tissue contusions and all. But he’s still not leaving. Because Foggy wouldn’t leave if it was Matt. Because they’re practically family.

“I’m staying.”

Foggy sighs very audibly. “All right, suit yourself. But don’t go complaining to me in the morning about cricks in your neck and lack of sleep. At least get someone to give you a blanket. Go do your handsome, wounded duck thing. I’m sure there’s a nurse out there who will take instant pity on you.”

“Foggy, I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” It’s pure sarcasm, because Foggy’s the one person who never takes Matt’s shit. “Do I have to get out of bed and do it myself?”

“No,” Matt quickly says. “Geez, emotional blackmail much?”

“Seeing how I’m a little physically challenged right now, that’s my only leverage. If there’s one thing you learn being a lawyer, it’s how to manipulate people to your advantage. You should know this, Murdock.”

Matt heaves himself to his feet, expands his cane. Putting on the charade is second nature now. He doesn’t even think about it anymore.

The handsome, wounded duck thing works like a charm, and he doesn’t even have to get out the extra charisma. He comes back with a blanket that’s soft enough, but smells of industrial strength antifungal laundry detergent. Matt wishes he didn’t have to use it. This would all be easier if Foggy was in on his secret. But... no. He can’t. No one can know. It’d be too dangerous.

He settles into the chair as best as he can. Silence stretches on for a few, long moments. Matt tries to ignore the detergent that seems to waft everywhere. At least it blocks out some of the other smells. He isn’t sure which blessings to count.

“Hey, did you hear about the Man in the Mask?” Foggy asks him.

“No,” he rasps, suddenly wide awake. “What about him?”

“They caught him on camera. Said he’s involved in the explosions, and that he killed three policemen.”

“Were they able to identify him?”

“I don’t know. Looked pretty blurry. A guy in black with a mask over half his face. They’d have to have some pretty sophisticated tech to be able to do anything with that. But I hope they catch the nutjob. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to roam freely around the city. Or anywhere.”

Matt presses his mouth into a thin line. No one gets it. Now he’s being blamed for getting people killed? That’s all kinds of wrong. But, yeah, Fisk is a mastermind. One more piece of proof that he must have influential people in his pocket. This was going to be a problem.

“Why are you not saying anything?” Foggy prompts.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. That he should be arrested?”

“We don’t know anything about the guy. And since when do you blindly trust the media?”

“Geez, Murdock, you have some twisted sense of right or wrong. Why are you even defending this guy?”

“I’m not defending him. But there’s this principle called innocent until proven guilty. How is it that you don’t remember that?”

“Yeah, well, things aren’t always quite so black and white.”

“And you’re proving my point right there.”

“I’m not sure I’m happy to put this guy in the gray zone. Those are always messy.”

Matt rubs his forehead with one hand. “Can we not talk about the Man in the Mask? Wasn’t there something about getting rest and taking it easy?”

“What, are you parroting Karen now?”

“Well, she had a point. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

“Yeah, thanks. Because the agonizing pain in my side really isn’t reminder enough.”

“Should I go get someone to adjust your pain meds?”

“No. It’s all good. Seriously, it’s not even that bad. Let me wallow in self-pity while I still have a legitimate reason, will ya?”

“Do you want some cheese with your whine?”

“You’re hilarious, Murdock.”

He smiles a small smile. “I have my moments.”

Something in Foggy’s expression hardens. Matt can’t see the details, but there’s something about the sensations all blurring together that tells him that. “We gotta talk about that not-answering-your-phone-thing-in-a-crisis, though.”

“Foggy, I told you. My battery died.”

“Mighty convenient. Or unlucky.”

Why is Foggy so hung up on that? It confuses Matt a little. Matt can take care of himself, and Foggy knows that.

He thought over the last few years he would have gotten used to this whole concept of having someone looking out for you. But when it comes down to it, he realizes that, when push comes to shove, he still doesn’t really know to look beyond the boundaries of his self-sufficient little world. It’s hard to change your ways when it’s only ever been you for a decade and a half.

He tries to keep his tone light when he says, “Might have to chalk that one up to Murphy’s Law.”

“We were a little worried for a while there, Karen and I.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Foggy.” Another apology that he doesn’t know the meaning of anymore. There’s so much hidden in it that spills over the edges of not answering his phone.

“Okay, well, let me just say I’m glad to see you in one piece. Next time have the emotionally stunted woman in your phone read you the battery status before you go out and save people from collapsing buildings, okay?”

Matt lets out a soft chuckle. “Yes, I’ll put that on the list, right below buy milk and restock toilet paper.”

The humorous comment trickles away into nothingness, and awkward silence ensues. Matt feels shaky, and not just from his senses on overload. The exhaustion hits home now, both physically and mentally.

Foggy’s voice is just as tired, but also worried. “Matt, are you sure you wanna stay here? No offense, but you really look like crap. I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were sleeping in your own bed. You can come back tomorrow morning and be as guilt-trippy and mother-henny as you want. Push my wheelchair to the entrance door, if you like.”

Matt wavers. It _does_ sound like the logical, the smart thing to do. He opens his mouth, but Foggy cuts him off.

“Hold that dismissing statement at the tip of your tongue that you’re fine and you’re staying, because I’ve just decided I’m not gonna have any of that. I’m gonna be super pissed off if you actually _do_ stay, okay?”

Foggy’s voice actually sounds bossy and serious. There’s little of his usual light, teasing tone there. Matt briefly furrows his brow.

“Seriously, I mean it,” Foggy insists. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your presence, but can you please go? Do both of us a favor?”

“Foggy,” Matt sighs, but knows he’s already caved.

“Please?”

“Okay,” he finally concedes, but tries not to let his relief show. It still piles on to the stack of guilt he’s been hoarding over the last few years.

“Promise me you’ll get some actual sleep, Murdock. I don’t wanna see you here tomorrow, all pale and bleary-eyed. Remember what I said about being super pissed off?”

He doesn’t deserve Foggy’s leniency. But that’s the thing about Foggy. He always reaches out and pulls people right into his bubble to smother them with care and concern. It’s one of the Foggy-related things that Matt has a love/hate relationship with. Well, if he’s perfectly honest, love mostly.

He forces out a chuckle that feels too hollow to really mean much. “I promise.”

“Good. Now go already.”

Matt tries not to groan as he gets up. There’s a carefully crafted façade to be maintained. He hovers unsurely next to Foggy’s bed, not entirely certain what to do with his hands other than hold on to his cane.

The slight amusement is back in Foggy’s voice. “You look like you wanna go for a bear hug but don’t know how.”

Yeah, well, maybe not exactly, but Foggy isn’t that far off. Foggy comes to his rescue once again. “You can wrap your arms around my questionably proportioned body when it’s functional again. Hold out your fist.”

A smile creeps into Matt’s features, and he does. Foggy bumps his own against it, and there’s something there that speaks of friendship and gratefulness and affection.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Foggy.”

“You got it, pal.”

And just like that, Matt makes his way towards the exit, his cane softly clicking against the linoleum floor. The smells and noises undulate with every step, mercifully muted when he sets foot in the elevator.

Once outside, the glass doors whooshing closed behind him, he allows himself to take a deep breath. New York’s air has never been the cleanest, but it’s a balm to his olfactory sensors in comparison, although he can’t quite get rid of the lingering aftertaste of disinfectant and body fluids. It’s probably going to linger for a few hours. Maybe days.

He doesn’t look forward to returning here again the next day, but he’ll do anything for Foggy. He’s the closest he has to family. And only few people can quite understand how much that means to Matt. It means the world, and it’s just a little bit less on fire when Foggy’s there.

And that... that is something very, very special. Something Matt never wants to lose.

He silently prays every night that he won't.

+-+-+-+-+

THE END.


End file.
